He took me in his arms, and the whole world was right.
****
Mom and Keisha got off to a rough start, but it soon smoothed over. Keisha began to call her “Ms. Cynthia,” which seemed to define the relationship better for Mom. And if Mom began to get dependent, Keisha would say, “Ms. Cynthia, you can get up and get that cup of coffee as well as I can,” and Mom would do it. Some nights Keisha made Mom cook, on the pretext that she wanted to know about northern cooking—so she, who never ate lamb (who in Texas does?) had lamb chops. And she ate asparagus on toast and mushrooms on toast, both dishes I remember from my childhood. One morning Keisha was late and explained that it was because “Ms. Cynthia” decided to cook fried mush—nothing but what we would call hard polenta today, made the night before in a loaf pan and then sliced the next morning, fried in butter and served with syrup.
“I didn’t want to tell her I’d been eatin’ that all my life,” Keisha said. “But it sure was good. I may get fat eatin’ with your mama.”
Mom’s furniture was delivered and arranged to her satisfaction, but she seemed to take forever “settling in.” I called every night, and when I asked what she’d done that day, she said, “Just moving in. I’ve got so much to do.” I couldn’t imagine it. I could move into a new house and be settled within two days. What, I wondered, would she do when she finished “moving in.”
Keisha took her to the nursery, and although fall wasn’t the ideal time, they bought pansies and a few other things that would winter over plus bulbs to plant for spring, and Keisha herself built a cold frame to start some herbs. She said Mom worked in the garden for a couple of hours some days.
Some nights they both came to dinner, but not too often. And sometimes Keisha brought Mom for dinner and then went to eat with her own mom. I think they welcomed the vacation from each other.
One night Mom helped me dry dishes. Claire didn’t come to supper that night, and the girls were doing their homework and getting ready for bed.
“Kelly, tell me about Claire. Why is this a difficult time in her life?”
“She’s going through a rather bitter separation,” I said. “She’s used to being a society figure, with lots of money, and all that is changing for her now.”
“I suppose her husband found another, younger one,” Mom sighed.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.” I just didn’t tell Mom what Claire did about it.
“Poor thing. You’re good to take her in,” Mom said. “I’ll have to go out of my way to be friends with her. Though, you know, she doesn’t look pitiful, like a lot of women in her situation would.”
I doubted that Claire would ever look pitiful. “She’s pretty resourceful,” I said, “and she has a lot of self confidence.”
“That’s good,” Mom said, “I wish I did. I’ve about done all my moving in, and I’m going to have to start making friends.”
I wanted to tell her not to start with Claire, but I kept quiet.
****
After Keisha picked Mom up and the girls were in bed and I was headed that way, Claire knocked on the back door and called, “You up? Can I come in for a minute?”
I said sure and greeted her in the t-shirt and cotton pants I slept in. Immediately I could tell she’d been drinking, but when she asked for wine I got two glasses.
“Jim’s filed for divorce. He’s claiming physical abuse and irreconcilable differences, and he’s asking for the house and support payments for Liz, of all the ridiculous things. Oh, and he won’t pay Megan’s expenses at college anymore. I’m hoping she can get a scholarship at TCU—her grades are good—and live with me, though that’s not the ideal circumstance for a girl in college. And, as of now, I’m cut off from his funding.”
All I could think was that when it rains it pours. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ve a line on a job. I guess I never told you I have an MBA and was once a loan officer in a bank. I know most banks aren’t hiring these days, but there’s a small, independent bank that’s still very solvent—they don’t do mortgages—and they need a public relations manager. I can wine and dine people and introduce bankers to the right people. And it will pay well. I should be out of your hair soon.”
“That’s the least of it,” I said, “but you’re lucky. The job market is so tough these days. I know real estate has slowed down.”
“Angus helped me,” she said without bitterness. “But what I’m going to do about the house is another matter. I don’t know. But I’ll figure it out. Jim wants it out of spite.” She gulped the last of her wine, stood, and said, “Thanks for listening. I think I owe it to you to keep you up with things.”`
While she talked, she kept rubbing her right shoulder with her left hand, until I asked, “What’s the matter with your shoulder?” I wondered if it was an injury from Jim’s assault, but that would have shown up before now.
“I don’t know, but it sure hurts.”
She must have read my mind.
“It has nothing to do with that night Jim tried to strangle me. It’s new, but even raising a glass of wine to my mouth is painful with that arm.” She grinned as though she’d made a joke. “I’ve been working out—got to keep my girlish figure—and I wonder if I sprained it or, heaven forbid, tore the rotator cuff.”
I didn’t even know what that meant, but it sounded awful to me. “Don’t you think you should see a doctor?”
“Yes, I think I’ll try to get an appointment tomorrow. Darn thing kept me awake last night, and if I roll over on it—zowee!”
I murmured sympathies and said I hoped she slept better that night.
And she was gone, walking out the door as sober as though she hadn’t drunk a lot of wine that night.
When Mike came home and asked about my day, I just shrugged and said it was fine, Mom needed something to do, I promised to assess Mrs. Glenn’s house, and that was all. I didn’t mention Claire. His evening was quiet too—a few speeding tickets. People seemed to think Allen Avenue was a major thoroughfare. And one suspected window peeper, which he thought was a cat. He’d seen Ralph Hoskins and three or four other people out on patrol, and that made him more nervous than ever.
We were boring people, and we went to bed early.
****
Tom Lattimore called the next day. “Kelly, would you have dinner with me Sunday night?”
Sunday was always Mike’s night off. “Sorry, Tom, but Mike is off that night, and we’ll stay home.”
“Stay home?” he asked, a question clear in his voice.
“Mike Shandy, the neighborhood patrol officer, is living with the girls and me,” I said. “I guess you could call us an item.”
“Oh.” He sounded embarrassed. “I hoped to woo you with my charms, but I guess not.”
“Thanks,” I laughed, “but no, I guess not.”
****
I needed to do a walk-through on Mrs. Glenn’s house, but as I gathered my things, Keisha said, “Why don’t you take your mama to Neiman Marcus for lunch? I bet she’d like that.”
I stopped and stared. Cynthia would love it. I could do the walk through after that. I called Mom and she said, excited as a little girl, she’d be ready in fifteen minutes. “Want to go, Keisha?’
“Naw. You two don’t need me at Neiman’s. And I ate there once. It’s all old ladies, ain’t my style.”
“Where are you going for lunch?”
“Over on the east side to a soul food diner my mama likes. It’s take your mama to lunch day!” She laughed, and I felt tricked.
Mom did love Neiman’s, thought the popovers with strawberry butter and the small cup of bouillon were “elegant” touches, and enjoyed the trio of salads. The service was fast and pleasant, though there weren’t many people there. Even Mom noticed that most of them were older ladies with blue hair.
“I’d like to come back here again,” she said, patting at her mouth with her napkin.
“You’ll have to make some friends so you can do that,” I suggested.
****
I took Anthony by Mrs. Glenn’s house the next morning, where we ran into her son, Bob, who was anything but cordial, though his anger didn’t seem directed at me. “Shouldn’t have been living here alone. I told her that for years, but she was so daft about it being the house that Dad has bought for them. Bother! I bought my wife three houses, and we haven’t been happy in any of them.”
That, I thought, was a cheerful outlook on life.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m just pissed, and I explode too easily. I’m mad that this happened to Mom, and I guess I’m mad at her for staying here.”
That was reasonable, I thought, like we get mad at loved ones for dying, because they’ve left us. I looked at him again—he was about fifty but didn’t look it; probably successful and looked it, from expensive, well-cut casual clothes to loafers with no socks, and a well-done haircut. Bob Glenn was as tall as Anthony but much slimmer and more fit, like he worked out every day. He held out a hand, and we shook, and then I introduced Anthony.
“Sheila told me you’d be coming by. You’re the real estate agent, and you befriended Mom.”
“I tried,” I said. “I guess I didn’t do a good job. She did talk to me about selling the house, but I could tell she didn’t want to do that.”
“Not your fault,” he said. “Go ahead and look around. I’ve got to get some breakfast. Where’s the best place around?”
Since it was eleven o’clock in the morning, I doubted anyplace would still serving breakfast, but the Grill might fry him some eggs, so I suggested that. And he was gone.
The house had little natural charm even with the curtains pulled back and sunlight streaming in. It was a bungalow with a small porch, four square windows marching across the front, two on each side of a very plain front door. Inside there were two distinct sides—three large bedrooms down the left and living room, dining and kitchen on the right. One bathroom—oops! A big problem with a three-bedroom house. The kitchen hadn’t been updated in years, if ever—an ancient gas stove (at least it was gas), a refrigerator so old I was surprised it didn’t have coils on the top, no dishwasher, no disposal. None of the charms that people sought in older houses—arched doorways, encompassing front porches and the like.
But Anthony saw it differently—he knelt down by the dining room door, pulled back a bit of carpet, and whistled—wonderful oak floors. Then he pointed to the ten-foot ceilings with crown molding, and the fireplace which was tile with embossed inserts, now almost hidden by a couch
“We can do something,” he said, “even add a half bath by taking part of one of those large bedrooms.”
Anthony was doing my part of the job, but as I looked again, I realized the rooms were all large. Mrs. Glenn cluttered and filled them with too much furniture, all of which made them look smaller than they were. The heavily draped windows held out what would be good natural light.
Anthony knocked on walls here and there. “Old-fashioned plaster,” he said. “No sheetrock here.”
“Okay, Mr. Fixit,” I said. “Give me an estimate, and let’s look at the garage while we’re at it.” Visions of Florence Dodson’s carport danced in my head.
The garage, Anthony decided, needed bracing but wouldn’t have to come down. And the house did have a porte-cochere. It began to look better to me. Maybe my vision was colored by the teatime I’d spent there.
Anthony went off to get some prices, and I ran by the house. After all, Mike was still there sleeping, the girls were at school, and Claire was gone who knows where—job hunting maybe. I envisioned…well, a mid-day romantic interlude.
I got anything but that. Mike was awake, in the kitchen fixing a grilled cheese, still bare-chested and in his pajama bottoms, looking disgruntled. “Who the hell is Tom Lattimore? I’ve heard that name before.”
Taken aback, I stammered, “He’s in real estate. Why?”
“He woke me up, that’s why!” Mike said. “I asked him why he didn’t call your office, and he said he did but you were out, so he thought he’d try the house.” He paused a minute and then said, “Oh, yeah, the Chase Court guy. Conroy ought to look into him.”
I decided it would be fun to play with Mike’s anger. “He also asked me out to dinner Sunday night.”
Mike whirled around, and I said, “I told him that was out of the question. That you were living here, and that’s your night off.”
“You mean if it weren’t my night off, you’d have gone?” He was incredulous.
“No, Mike, I’m trying to make it clear I won’t do business with him, and I’m not interested in anything else.”
“Good,” he growled, and then, “Damn! I burned the sandwich.”
“I do that a lot too,” I said. “Sometimes I just count on making them twice.” I came up behind him and put my arms around him, until he threw down the spatula, turned toward me with a hug and a good, sound kiss, and said, “Hey, it’s nice to have you here in the middle of the day.”
